


Pockets

by munbun



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Pool & Billiards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-09 03:25:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17993939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/munbun/pseuds/munbun
Summary: He can hear the jeering about five doors down the hall, and the wood of the door is vibrating as he pushes it open. Damn. Itchy knew it was Trace’s birthday (got him a fucking six pack in a brown paper bag and everything) but this, this is something else.





	Pockets

There’s always some kind of commotion in the Felt manor. It’s hard not to have something going on, when the nights get long and the action goes stale and you’ve got fifteen bored crew members all lounging about one of the most extravagant personal dwellings in the city. Corridors so intricate and expansive, it seems like there is no end to them. Infinite possibilities, yet Itchy walks them, memorized. For once he was actually just trying to mind his own business, listening to some music, when Clover shot him a text.  
  
04: red lounge  
04: be there or be square~  
  
So Itchy is there.  
  
He can hear the jeering about five doors down the hall, and the wood of the door is vibrating as he pushes it open. Damn. He knew it was Trace’s birthday (got him a fucking six pack in a brown paper bag and everything) but this, this is something else. Confetti on the floor, balloons in the rafters _(saucy)_ , open bottles of liquor scattered around the room turning the air sweet and thick. Almost all the Stripes are here already, lacking Sawbuck, if only because he was visiting Doze on watch duty, and Stitch, because he’s always in bed by this time. Fin and Trace are on either end of a billiards table, Clover sitting nearby on a stack of extra chairs. Itchy hustles his way over, leaning against the stack. Clover gives a giggle, pushing Itchy’s helmet out of the way to kiss the top of his head.  
  
“So what’s the commotion about?” Itchy asks, surveying the room, finding even Snowman present, lurking in a corner by a window, smoking. Die shivers nearby.  
“They have a bet,” Clover fills him in.  
“All this for a fuckin’ bet?” Itchy asks, looking at Clover with disbelief.  
“Whoever wins tops tonight.”  
  
Clover says it loud enough to draw the attention of the others, who throw up a wall of snickers and taunts. Fin’s face flushes, but he holds his ground, glaring Trace down as he chalks off the top of his cue stick. Itchy can’t help but join in with a wolf whistle, which gets a cube of chalk hurled hurled at him, easily batted away.  
  
“So who’s your money on?” Itchy asks, looking towards Clover, knowing that if there’s a bet, Clover has money in the game.  
“Oh, Trace, obviously. Fin can’t hold up under pressure.”  
“But Fin can see where each ball will fall before he even takes his shot?”  
“They set no-juju rules. It’s all on their pool sharking skills.”  
  
Itchy blinks, and raises his eyebrows, shrugging one shoulder. He isn’t exactly surprised, though. Trace can be a competitive guy, and getting the chance to show his stuff against someone just as good at billiards as him must be exciting. Before long, Matchsticks is tossing the rack towards Trace, who lines up and shuffles the pool balls. Each present member of the Felt eagerly eyes their colors, knowing they’re in for a good game with Fin and Trace up to bat. Trace lifts the rack, passing it back to Biscuits, who hangs it back up.  
  
“After you,” Trace says, doffing his hat towards his opponent.  
“Oh, bite me.” Fin takes position, drawing his cue stick back, and snapping it forward, sending the cue careening into the perfect triangle of numbers and colors.  
  
Naturally, Scratch sees fit to teleport in the instant the cue ball strikes the others, causing a small thunderclap of sound that makes everyone in the room jump. Fin curses, reeling on the tiny mob boss, who merely gives a small wave. Scratch tucks his arms back behind his back, standing vaguely near Clover as well as he observes. Fin turns back to Trace.  
  
“What sunk?”  
“Me, Crowbar, Sawbuck.”  
“Ah, so I’m shooting for solids, then…”  
  
Fin steps around the table, taking aim at the solid green perched precariously on the edge of a corner pocket. Tapping the cue along, he clips the corner of ball thirteen, and misses the shot entirely. Trace grins, and pushes Fin out of the way with the butt of his stick, making Fin stick his tongue out. Trace sinks six with ease, and the solids are his. Someone passes a shot to Itchy as Trace sinks his number, and Itchy downs it without a second thought. Trace’s lead is already impressive; Clover whispers that it went to his head when he misses blue by a long shot.  
  
Fin is up to bat, and he doesn’t fuck around trying to catch up. Fourteen, eleven, fifteen, the shots drop like flies. Itchy is excited, now. It’s actually looking like it might be a short game, if it keeps up the way it has been. He has a bad angle on nine, and there’s no luck to the shot. Trace is up, and though the score may be even, he’s still feeling a prickle of unease with how easily Fin can catch up to him. To soothe his own ego and maybe get on Fin’s nerves, he purposefully pulls a complicated angle, putting a little English on the cue, sinking five with a tap. Scratch snaps his fingers, and a shot glass appears in front of Fin. Fin pulls a face at Doc, but drinks it, grimacing. Focusing would only be harder now. Trace, unperturbed, sinks two, and he’s finally down to his last ball. The smugness radiating off of Clover makes Itchy feel giddy. He settles a hand on Clover’s waist, giving it a squeeze, just to break the tension. Clover breaks out in giggles, terribly ticklish, and smacks Itchy’s arm away.  
  
“Shut up, I’m trying to focus!”  
“I thought you said this was a no-juju game, babe?”  
“Shush!”  
  
It proves too much of a distraction. Trace clips the cue, Scratching it. He curses, and goes to rap the flesh-and-felt Clover with the end of his stick, only to smack his hand on the edge of the table as he advances. Clover gives him a cool glance and a smirk. Itchy falls deeper in love.  
  
Fin fishes out the cue and tries to choose an easy angle to sink any of the stripes. There’s an issue. Thirteen and twelve, lined up just-so that he’s going to have to sink them one at a time, and he won’t be able to get a good angle on the second shot. The angle on nine is a gamble at best. Even so, he taps thirteen, smacking it into twelve, sinking the purple of the pair.  
  
“Don’t you fucking Eggs and Biscuits this bullshit!” Trace snaps, and the room breaks out in snickers, shattering the tension of the end game.  
  
Snowman approaches now, interested in the end of the game, knowing that her time is coming up. Fin pockets thirteen, but has to hit the cue across the table to reach nine. He misjudges the angle, and the result isn’t pretty for either of them. Trace makes a dismayed sound as he realizes he’s going to have to gamble on sinking four. Itchy can see the mental process of _well, fuck it_ running through Trace’s head. He sends Clover’s ball ricocheting wildly around the table.  
  
“Come on, Clover, just _get in a hole, I know that’s what you’re good at--_ ”  
  
The room erupts into laughter, and even Snowman chuckles behind her hand. Clover taps his chair once, and catching an angle just right, Trace sinks four. Itchy looks towards Clover, but his trove isn’t looking back, watching Trace carefully selecting a pocket for eight, pleased. Clover refuses to drink his shot, and surprisingly or not, Matchsticks doesn’t argue with him. (Quarters drinks it for him.) Fin leans back against a support beam, watching with a displeased huff, orange trails leaking from his eyes, as Trace wins the game with ease. Trace tosses his cue stick to Cans, eagerly running to Fin, grabbing him by his belt loops and pulling him into a kiss. Fin grumbles, but kisses back, while the room whistles and cheers. Trace manages to spare a hand to flip them off.  
  
The glass is fogged up and glowing from the outside. The nights seem long, but they’re getting shorter. The days seem cold, but they’re getting warmer. The manor seems restless, but even with the city frozen to a crime-less standstill in the dead of winter, the Felt still have their fun.


End file.
